<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Last Word by intodusk</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27336964">The Last Word</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/intodusk/pseuds/intodusk'>intodusk</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Parahumans Series - Wildbow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Noir, F/F, Murder Mystery</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:59:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,078</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27336964</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/intodusk/pseuds/intodusk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Private investigator Lisa Wilbourn doesn't go looking for trouble, it just happens to find her. In places she shouldn't be. On a regular basis.<br/>But it's not her fault, honest.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Taylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver/Lisa Wilbourn | Tattletale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Last Word</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleepingKnight/gifts">TheSleepingKnight</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My Halloween exchange with TheSleepingKnight!<br/>Prompt: Smugbug AU where Lisa is a private eye</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"<em>That's </em> your fucking problem!"</p><p>The light flickered once, and the ceiling fan it was attached to slowed down a moment. When they both came back on, she was still glaring at me.</p><p>A hundred and one responses came to mind. I could have apologized for showing her a good time. I could have asked if we were still on for the jazz club Friday. If I were as smart as I claimed to be, I would have just shut my yap and watched her walk those glorious gams away, back up to her ivory tower.</p><p>Instead, I told her, "Say hello to that Dean fella for me."</p><p>Five seconds later I stood alone in my little office, staring back at the outline of an eye stenciled on the door’s frosted glass, rubbing a fresh bruise on my cheek courtesy of one Victoria Dallon. Really, it was a wonder she bothered teaching sociology when she could clearly box with the best of them.</p><p>The light flickered twice. A regular occurrence now, some issue with the wiring. I’d been hoping someone else in the building would take it upon themselves to talk to the landlord, but it was looking more and more like they’d all been hoping the same thing.</p><p>I took a seat in my creaky wooden swivel chair, trying to ignore the pain. On my desk, beside scattered papers and an old kerosene lamp, sat a half-empty handle of medicine. I poured a dose into a tumbler and sent it down the hatch. It burned going down, but then, most medicine does.</p><p>The light flickered thrice, then died outright. Without it, the room was dark as pitch--the consequence of working out of an office building’s basement. The fan slowed and slowed until, finally, it went still.</p><p>Off again. </p><p>I lifted my tumbler in the fan's general direction. "Me too, pal."</p><p>I'd just gotten the kerosene lamp to work when a knock rattled my door.</p><p>“Come back tomorrow,” I called, propping my loafers up on the desk.</p><p>My uninvited guest saw fit to come in anyways. She was six feet of trouble wrapped in black silk, like the grim reaper gone for a night on the town. Tasteful slits up the sides of her dress offered a glimpse of lean, pale legs, long like cigarette holders. A gauzy chiffon shawl draped as thin as shadow over her shoulders. Smoky rouge and dark lipstick emphasized eyes and a mouth that were plenty noticeable to begin with. Her fashion said she’d make a fine friend to keep half a bed warm, but her demeanor told me butter would freeze solid in her mouth.</p><p>“Are you Lisa Wilbourn, private eye?” she asked in a stainless steel voice.</p><p>“That’s what it says on the door. You know, the one that was closed?”</p><p>“I need to find the man that killed my niece.”</p><p>“Well, seems like he ain’t here. Maybe try the next floor up, see if his name’s in the directory.” When she failed to get annoyed or get gone I added, “You want a murder looked into, talk to someone with a badge. I catch cheaters, not killers.”</p><p>She frowned, ever-so-slightly. “I heard you helped track down the woman who put that bomb in a storage locker-"</p><p>“Special case.”</p><p>“-as well as the Boston Butcher.”</p><p>“For a friend.”</p><p>She placed her hands on the back of the chair on the other side of my desk. “Then call me a friend.”</p><p>I chuckled. “I don’t know you from Eve, lady. ‘Sides, friends do favors for friends, and all you’ve done for me so far is waste my clearly precious time.”</p><p>“Oh?” Her nails clicked on the chair. “Is twice your rate up front favor enough, then?”</p><p>My legs swung off the desk as I sat more proper-like in my chair. The tumbler, I placed off to the side. “I haven’t even told you my rate yet.”</p><p>“I did my research. Will you do yours?”</p><p>I squinted, trying to make out more of her through the gloom. “Take a seat, Ms…?”</p><p>She obliged, settling in like it’d been her chair all along. Closer to the kerosene-yellow glow, I got a better look at her features. She could have been a rough 35 or a graceful 50; considering the stone-cold look in her eyes my money was on the former. Silver-grey streaks dignified her dark curls. Wide cheekbones and gaunt cheeks made her face look less like a face and more like a skull someone had stretched skin over.</p><p>“Weaver. It’s my maiden name.” She looked me over as I’d done her. “That’s quite the scar.”</p><p>“This old thing?” I pointed to the corner of my lip, opposite the blossoming bruise. “Brought my mouth to a knife fight, is all.”</p><p>“Is that a habit of yours?”</p><p>“Running my mouth? Sure, sometimes. Knife fights? I’m more a revolver kinda dame, myself.”</p><p>“Regardless, I’d ask that you avoid trouble where possible. I want this man caught, not skipping town because you stirred something up.”</p><p>I rolled my hand. “Low profile, look don’t touch, all that. You don’t gotta worry about me, doll, I know the game. Now tell me about this niece killer.”</p><p>“He’s a local opiate kingpin. Runs illegal dens in the gambling district. The one they found her in got shut down, but he no doubt has others.” She cut me off before I could protest. “No mob connections, I’m sure of that much. Just a dealer with a steady supply and a few well-paid subordinates.”</p><p>“What makes you think it was him and not one of these mooks of his?”</p><p>“If a middleman did the deed, he’s still responsible, either by orders or by negligence. There’s a bonus in it for you if you can name anyone else involved.”</p><p>I glanced up at the dead fan. I had been thinking of moving into a better office, and it wasn’t like I’d get one by wallowing in my troubled love life down here. “You got the cash to back that promise up?”</p><p>As she rose, she pulled an envelope from within her dress, snatched one of my few working pens and scribbled something on it. “Your pay and my number. Update me whenever you find something.”</p><p>I counted the money first. All there. “Consider it done.”</p><p>“Good. Your reputation precedes you, Ms. Wilbourn. I expect you to live up to it.” With that, she started for the door.</p><p>I decided to try and get a rise out of her. “One last thing, Ms. Weaver?”</p><p>She turned halfway to look back at me.</p><p>I gestured to the coat rack in the corner holding onto my fedora and duster. “If you ever need somewhere to hang up that dress, come by during off hours again.”</p><p>She didn’t react at all, except to look me up and down a moment. “Maybe I will.”</p><p>For once, I found myself without a response.</p><p>The door shut behind her, her shadow in the glass blocking out the eye until she was good and gone.</p><p>"...Damn."</p><p>As though a clingy lover begging me not to leave her boudoir, the fan light came on again.</p><p>I jabbed a finger towards it. “Oh no you don’t, you had your shot. This old girl’s finally moving up in the world.” Donning my coat and hat, I flicked it and the lamp off, then climbed the stairwell that led right out onto the street.</p><p>It was time to go to work.</p><p> </p><p>☾</p><p> </p><p>Knowing things was my job, but that was a pretty broad umbrella. The private eye business took me to a lot of places, introduced me to lots of people, put me in the outer orbit of many a craft and practicality. As such, I knew a little bit about most everything, just enough to pick out odd details here and there or fake my way through a conversation.</p><p>Street performers, by comparison, were specialists. They worked a small handful of corners any given week and had to know them from the streetlights to the gutters. You couldn’t make a living if you couldn’t tell whose pockets were looser than others, and if you were smart you learned to read the contexts behind them at a glance. A lush staggering out of a bar was easy money. A gambler wandering between games was a harder mark. An addict walking off their latest score was as good as broke.</p><p>When they weren’t wowing dopes, Francis and his little troupe of would-be vagrants loitered around the fire escape behind a crummy deli. A gal in a wheelchair parked in the alley beneath made her marionette dance in sync with a svelte blonde. Their beefiest member stood on the lower landing, trying and failing to teach a pretty boy to juggle.</p><p>Francis himself sat with his legs dangling off the edge of the higher landing, one arm around his skinny lady friend and the other taking a cigarette from his lips. They twitched when he spotted me, making his funny little moustache go askew.</p><p>“Well, well, if it isn’t everyone’s least favorite dick.”</p><p>I grinned, with teeth. “I know more than a few lovely gals who’d disagree.” I gave his girl a nod. “Evening, Ms. Meinhardt.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes.</p><p>Francis took a long pull, scrutinizing me all the while. When he spoke, smoke drifted out the corners of his mouth. “You know, if you keep treating us like consultants, someday I’m gonna want my name on that door of yours.”</p><p>“No business-business today, just personal. I’m in the market for a new gardener.” I lowered my voice a bit. “I heard poppies are in season, and I want a whiff.”</p><p>“Personal, right. Like you’ve ever had a whiff of anything stronger than whiskey.” His eyes narrowed. “What are you really going after here?”</p><p>“Don’t you know? A good detective needs a balanced lifestyle to keep her senses sharp.” I held up one hand, “Uppers…” then the other, “...and downers.” The downers hand sunk beneath its twin. “And right now I’ve only got a line on uppers.”</p><p>“Sorry, dick. I don’t do an ounce of magic for free.” He looked off to one side, acting like it was possible to ignore me. “Even if it’s personal.”</p><p>I pulled out a few of the bills from Ms. Weaver, feigning offence. “Who said I wasn’t gonna tip?”</p><p>Again, his lips twitched.</p><p> </p><p>☾</p><p> </p><p>“It’s run out of a gambling hall on 23rd,” I said, leaning on the payphone booth. “The only table with two dealers. Make the right bet, say the right thing, and when you ‘lose’ they usher you into a back room with some couches and a pipe.”</p><p>Ms. Weaver’s voice came through mostly clear, like the phone line itself was afraid to disappoint her. “And you’re sure this one is connected to the den that was shut down?”</p><p>“The building it’s set up in was empty a week ago. If the same guys working the last place aren’t in charge of this one, I’ll eat my hat.” I took it off and looked it over, checking for ashes from Francis’ cigarette. “And I like my hat.”</p><p>“Good. Follow up on that; these dealers might earn you a bonus, but I paid you to find the man at the top.”</p><p>I put the hat back on. “Yeah, yeah, I know how to do my job. I’ll take a closer look at the place tomorrow, see what there is to see.”</p><p>“Ever the consummate professional,” she said, dry as a bone.</p><p>“Well, if you really wanna see consummate, I- hello?”</p><p>No response but the dial tone.</p><p>I replaced the phone in its receiver, shaking my head. “This dame…”</p><p> </p><p>☾</p><p> </p><p>By night, the hall on 23rd was like a living Hollywood flick - all flash and dazzle if you ignored the tremendous costs. Patrons joked and played and tossed their chips around, drunk off either their oversweet booze or their under-budget winnings. Dealers, bartenders and servers were just as much props as the tables, posters and half-nude statuettes. The only people getting anything worthwhile out of the deal were the ones counting the cash.</p><p>By day, the same hall looked like a movie set between scenes. The rich red-and-gold color scheme seemed downright ordinary with sunlight flooding through the doors. Poker tables were pushed off to the sides so some poor teenager could mop up the booze stains. Delivery workers from three different companies wheeled barrels, boxes and bottles in and out on hand trucks.</p><p>I pushed one such cart into the building, head down, sleeves rolled up, looking like any other blue collar schmo. When I passed the fellow standing by the doorway to the back rooms, his focus buried in his clipboard, I didn’t tell him I was here to take these empties or move that piece of furniture around. I simply acted like I was supposed to be there and rolled my pilfered truck on by.</p><p>The hallway behind the hall was one long row of doors, most of which were left open to let the rooms air out. Opium smoke had a particular bittersweetness to it, like a greenhouse full of flowers that had all withered and died, but a layman would be more likely to think it was a perfume. The pipes themselves had been stowed away somewhere but the rooms bore all the marks of hookah dens. Cozy spaces, couches and chairs against the walls, rugs and blankets for the snoozy types.</p><p>The last door at the end was the only one left closed. Few others went in and out of the hallway at all, and none had gone as far down as me. With one last look back to make sure no one was watching, I left the cart behind and slid inside, shutting the door behind me.</p><p>It was less a supply room than a storage closet, stacked on the left with tall shelves full of cards and dice, lined up on the right with hookah pipes in a row. A desk on the wall beside the doorway supported a ledger book, a bloodied register tray and the slumped form of a short man who’d had his head bashed halfway in. On the other end of the room, just before another door, a much larger man was being strangled from behind with a garrotte.</p><p>“Stuh-stop hu-huhh-!” he managed, his eyes rolling back.</p><p>Adrenaline does funny things to the brain. You hear more about its effects on the body, of course, because those are easier to see. A clerk lifts a car off someone that got run over, or a homebody sprints from a mugger faster than she’s ever run in her life. While the rest of you kicks into top gear, though, the mind is flooded with excitement enough to drive a coma patient to mania. Different people react to that differently, some less rationally than others.</p><p>In my case, I yelped, “Talk about a sore loser!” and scrabbled at my hip for the revolver I’d left in my desk.</p><p>The big guy getting got went limp, slumping back until his killer pushed him into the game supply shelves. Playing cards jostled out of their boxes scattered in the air, falling atop his prone form like so much snow.</p><p>There was a split second, just after the body dropped, where I got a look at his killer through the avalanche. They wore loose grey slacks, a drab white shirt, and a flat cap. One black leather glove held a coiled length of piano wire and another twisted the doorknob. The cards obscured all other details.</p><p>And then the back door shut with a clunk, leaving me alone with two corpses and one big mess.</p><p>“Damn, damn, damn damn damn!” I shoved the ledger into my pocket and did my best to step through the minefield. More than once I had a close call, nearly slipping on a pile of cards, but soon enough I’d stepped over the big guy and flung the door open.</p><p>It exited out into a narrow alley, cluttered in each direction with dumpsters and metal trash cans. I sprinted down the least cluttered end, stumbling out into a crowd of pedestrians. I looked in every direction, tip-toed to peer over as many heads as I could, but failed to find any flat caps or black gloves. A couple peoples’ eyes lingered on me a moment, flushed and out of breath as I was, but none paid me more than a passing glance.</p><p>I looked back down the alley, then winced, seeing an image in my head of the bloody crime scene I’d fled. The smart thing to do here was to shut up, shove my hands in my pockets and walk away like I was headed somewhere.</p><p>For what felt like the first time all week, I did the smart thing.</p><p> </p><p>☾</p><p> </p><p>“Wasn’t a robbery.” My hand tapped on the payphone booth, restless. “Money was still in the tray.”</p><p>Ms. Weaver paused. “A conflict between business rivals, perhaps?”</p><p>“Maybe.” I sighed. “Or maybe, after whatever went down at the old spot, the man on top decided they were too big of a liability.”</p><p>“It’s possible. Anything new on that front?”</p><p>I pulled the ledger from my pocket, flipping through for the twentieth time. “Yes and no. It’s plain there’s some funny business going on in their bookkeeping. Income from names like ‘James Smith’ and ‘Mary Brown’ in the same amount people pretend to lose at the tables. When one shows up on one day, it shows again the same day next month or it doesn’t show at all. Then there’s these big payments every other week to some repair company I’ve never heard of.”</p><p>“Sounds like laundering.”</p><p>“That’s a given. It’s the repair thing I’m stuck on. Regular payments mean that’s probably the cash they pay their suppliers with, but the cover could be an in as to what kind of front your guy is using. Makes me think it’s bigger than restaurants or corner stores. A factory maybe, or some kinda real estate thing.”</p><p>She hummed low, considering the information, then switched gears. “And you’re sure you didn’t catch any identifying details about the one in gloves?”</p><p>“Not enough to go on. I’ll say this for him though,” I muttered, looking down at the getup I’d yet to change out of. “His ‘blending in’ outfit was pretty close to mine, so he's got good taste at least.”</p><p>I realized right away that I shouldn’t have said that about someone who might have been her niece’s killer, but it took me a few seconds of silence to figure out how to apologize. “Listen-”</p><p>“Call me when you figure it out,” she said, voice even.</p><p>The line went dead.</p><p>I groaned, resting my forehead atop the booth, hoping I hadn’t just burned any bonus I might have earned.</p><p> </p><p>☾</p><p> </p><p>The golden rule of alcoholism states that as long as you’re at a real swinging spot, it doesn't count as drinking alone.</p><p>Somer's Bop was the place to be on a Friday night. Guys and gals from all parts of town packed the place, gabbing round tables and cutting rug on the dance floor. A trio of real wild cats yowled and squealed and played the hottest bebop this side of Birdland. The bar by the back was the one portion with empty seats, but only so folks could walk up to it, order a round, and walk it right back to their table of pals.</p><p>Being without any pal tonight, even the kinda-sorta type, I was at the bar. Not that I needed the company of course. Time alone was time I could spend turning this case over. If anything, the crazy jazz helped me think clearer, knocked me out of my head when my thoughts were leading me in circles.</p><p>I took a long sip of my sidecar, letting the fruity cognac aftertaste dance on my tongue. The ledger, I'd pretty much figured out. There were only so many buildings that fit the parameters those entries implied, and a couple field trips over the weekend would narrow the list of suspects down to one.</p><p>What I couldn't wrap my head around was the big guy and his killer. Something about it had wedged a splinter in the back of my mind, poking at me even as I tried to ignore it. I'd seen a few deaths in my day, so watching someone give up the ghost shouldn't shake me, but I couldn't help lingering on the moment before he went. Wire squeezing his neck, face gone blueberry, choking out his dying word.</p><p>I finished my drink in one last go, trading my frustration for tang and a bit of burn. The cat on tenor sax wailed like he was crying, like he was desperate to tell us something but couldn't speak the words. The smooth-talker on drums built up a cutoff on the snare, and on the count of four they all tumbled to a halt.</p><p>The crowd clapped and whistled and hollered. I'd have joined in, but my eyes were stuck to the stool beside me, empty of any fine female company.</p><p>
  <em> “Stuh-stop hu-huhh-!” </em>
</p><p>It was a good thing I'd finished my cocktail or I'd have spilled it all over the bartop. As it was I tipped a little extra for almost knocking the glass to the ground, then beat feet out of the club. The nearest pay phone was close enough you could still hear hints of the band kicking into gear again. I messed the number up the first one or three tries but got it on the fifth.</p><p>The phone rang, and rang, and rang.</p><p>I tugged on the cord, still figuring out what I was gonna say.</p><p>The line clicked. "Hello?"</p><p>I licked my lips. "I know."</p><p>Ms. Weaver was quiet for a long moment. "You don't work mornings, do you?"</p><p>"Nope."</p><p>Her tone was firm, even for her. "Your office, at sunrise."</p><p> </p><p>☾</p><p> </p><p>I hesitated at my own door.</p><p>I’d never noticed until now just how intimidating that big old eye could be. From the inside the frosted glass blurred the outline, but from the outside it was crystal clear, big as your head and staring you down like God’s great judgement. Any other time, the thought that I’d been spooking my clients like this all along might have been funny to me, but right then I didn’t feel like laughing.</p><p>The sun wasn’t up just yet, not that you could tell from down here. I’d hardly slept, and I was sure I looked a mess, but I’d hoped to be the first to arrive. If I could just get to my desk’s top-left drawer…</p><p>I opened the door.</p><p>The office was already occupied. A man was sat in my little wooden swivel chair. He wore a crisp pinstripe suit with the works - shiny buttons on his jacket, a suave vest buttoned tight on his chest, and a well-folded pocket hanky to boot. The only thing missing was a tie to bring the whole look together.</p><p>Well, not quite missing. More, wrapped around his head as a makeshift gag. The ropes tying his hands behind his back and binding his biceps to his torso, those were something I’d yet to see on any store mannequin.</p><p>A tall figure in loose grey slacks and an open white shirt loomed over him, tucking the shirt into the slacks. One black gloved hand worked on buttoning up while the other held my revolver up for me to see, almost as an afterthought.</p><p>“If you’re looking for this, don’t bother.”</p><p>I swallowed my nerves and nodded to the man in the chair. “Morning, Mr. Calvert.”</p><p>He grunted through the gag, looking dazed. Concussed, maybe. It was hard to tell if his head was swollen or if that was just what he looked like regularly.</p><p>The one in the gloves gestured toward the corner. “My hat, if you’d be so kind.”</p><p>Careful not to let the pair leave my sight, I edged over to the coat rack. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the flat cap, hung one rung above a long, silken black dress. I tossed it to her, nice and easy.</p><p>Ms. Weaver caught the cap without trouble, placing it atop her long, dark curls, not bothering to stuff them into the hat this time. Without the dark makeup, she was less a reaper in a racy costume and more a plain Jane with a striking steeliness. She did the button just below her sternum and stopped there, leaving the shirt partway open. “I’m assuming this isn’t a surprise to you.”</p><p>I managed not to let my gaze linger on her pale skin or the hint of black lace. The revolver was a more than adequate distraction. It wasn’t pointed at me, or even near me, but it didn’t need to be. “Not most of it, no. I’ll admit I didn’t expect to see my landlord bound and gagged when I woke up this morning.”</p><p>“I looked into this building after you called about our run-in. This space and his second-floor office were the only ones in use. The directory included names you found in the ledger.” For the first time since I’d walked in, she looked me in the eyes. “Falsified rent payments under fake names, with a paper trail that looks legal enough at a glance.”</p><p>The fan light flickered.</p><p>“And a repair company that doesn’t do any repairs.” I frowned and looked away, unable to meet her gaze head-on. “But then, why rent this spot to me in the first place?”</p><p>“Your work on the bomber case gave you something of a reputation. If I had to guess, he thought he could keep an eye on you if you were stuck in his basement.” She shrugged. “That, or he needed one real person to keep as proof that the rest weren’t falsified, and you happened to apply.”</p><p>“And what about you, doll? If I’m the sucker with wool over her eyes, why were you wearing sheep’s clothing?”</p><p>“Don’t compare me to rabid dogs like him.” She sent a disdainful stare Calvert’s way, so icy I thought he might freeze solid. “He kills to sate his hunger for power. I only kill killers.”</p><p>I ran a hand through my hair. “Was- was there even a niece to begin with?”</p><p>“She was someone’s niece. Not mine, but someone’s.” Her grip tightened on the gun. “Until she saw something she shouldn’t have.”</p><p>“The dealers?”</p><p>“Did the deed. Made it look like an overdose so the family would keep it quiet.” She kicked Calvert in the kneecap with a gruesome snap, making him scream into the thick gag. “Disgraced her name in death to cover their tracks.”</p><p>I walked slow over to the desk, making no sudden movements, wary even though she didn’t seem to be. I sat in the chair meant for clients and almost reached for my tumbler, only half-empty. Instead I planted my elbows on the desk, resting my forehead against my palms. “Why me?”</p><p>“Why you?”</p><p>“You did half the work yourself. You could have found the gambling hall on your own with enough trial and error. The ledger was yours if I hadn’t shown up, and there’d be no one to pin you for the bodies in the back room.” I forced myself to meet her stare with my own. “So why did you hire me at all?”</p><p>After a long, nerve-wracking silence, she stepped closer to me, taking a seat on the edge of the desk, just beside me. She looked at me, really looked at me, and even though she was the one with her shirt half-open, I felt like I was the one stripped bare.</p><p>“You’re good,” she said, voice straying a bit from her usual monotone. “You do good work. Finding the hall, catching the repair detail in the ledger… Maybe I could have done all of that myself, but every day I spent looking could have been another body, maybe more.”</p><p>“You said you only kill murderers. If you’re not gonna do me in with him, there’s not much to stop me from ratting you out.”</p><p>“I think you already know Weaver isn’t my real name, maiden or otherwise. Besides, if you had faith in the law, you wouldn’t get involved in cases like the Butcher’s.” She paused, almost hesitating. “What I do… working alone is practical, but it isn’t easy. You have a clever mind and you’re willing to put yourself at risk to do good, but you and I both know you’re capable of more.”</p><p>“Oh, hell.” The implication hit me like a metal bat to the dome. “God damn. Jesus, Mary and Joseph dancing naked in the ninth circle.” This time I did reach for the tumbler, finishing it off with a wince. “How do you even, I dunno, make a living out of this?”</p><p>Her lips twitched, and if I didn’t know any better I might have called it a smile. “The killers with money tend to be the ones that get away with it. After I’ve gotten to them, they certainly don’t need it anymore.” She took my hand in one of hers, the smooth leather sending a shiver up my spine. She turned my hand palm-up and placed the revolver in my grip. “I won’t make you do anything. One way or another, he gets a bullet in his brain, and I use that lamp there to burn this two-story fire hazard down. I can do that on my own.” She took off one of her gloves and placed her bare hand on my shoulder, surprisingly gentle. “But I’d appreciate the assistance.”</p><p>A dry chuckle spilled out of me. “Partners in crime, huh.”</p><p>“If you so choose.”</p><p>I looked down at the gun, feeling its weight in my hand for what felt like the first time, then looked across the desk.</p><p>Mr. Calvert didn’t try to beg through the gag. Instead, he spoke with his eyes, promised me a big reward if I untied him, told me this wasn’t anything like due process, reminded me of the laws against taking justice into my own hands. They went wide as saucers when I pointed the barrel between them and pulled the hammer back.</p><p>With my finger on the trigger and a crazy dame’s hand on my shoulder, I couldn’t help but smirk.</p><p>“Keep the deposit.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Full prompt: Smugbug AU where Lisa is a private eye and Taylor is a saucy serial killer</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>